


Poor Bastard

by lawsofman



Series: We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers- [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawsofman/pseuds/lawsofman
Summary: Reader explains to Speirs that there are more treasures in Nazi occupied Europe than silver platters and candelabras.
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s)
Series: We Few, We Happy Few, We Band of Brothers- [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676491
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Poor Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> no warnings, just some fluff with Dog/Easy Company’s resident psychopath CO. I just……love him

The war in Europe was over. Hitler had shot himself three years too late, but what was done was done. I had been going through every house, every office within the village of Berchtesgaden in my search for treasures. Earlier in the day, I had seen Ron walk into the makeshift post office with his arms full of silver bits and bobs. Platters, candlesticks, ornaments. You name it, he’s nicked it.

The _spoils of war_ , he would say.

Currently, I was searching through a dead SS Major’s home within the town that had yet to be destroyed by the men.

“I’ve been searching for you everywhere. Didn’t take you for a looter,” Ron’s voice startled me out of my deep concentration. I had been gazing at the shelves of books, eyes reading over every title so deeply that I didn’t hear him enter. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulder leaned against the door jam, watching my every move. I blushed under his gaze at having been caught.

“Typically I’m not, but it’s come to my attention that some of these officers have hidden goldmines. Did you need something?” He raised an eyebrow, interest piqued albeit quite apprehensive.

“Goldmines?” I nodded, a small smile grew on my lips because I knew he had been swiping valuables since we were dropped into Normandy.

“Books, Ron,” I motioned to the various shelves that lined the office of the now very dead SS Major. Dried blood still evident on the wall behind his desk.

“Books?” He asked with his brows furrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“Very specific books,” I clarified without actually clarifying anything. From the look he sent my way, he wanted an explanation. “As much as these Nazi assholes like to tote that they are all about the ‘Motherland’, they do enjoy literature from the outside. Contraband, of course, but as long as you’re an officer you can do whatever you please it seems.” He nodded, still unsure.

“I thought the Nazis burned their books,” He eyed the various rich mahoganyshelves that lined the room.

“Not _their_ books, our books. And obviously the common folk are the ones ordered to burn all literature that does not align with the Reich. Keep the masses uneducated and they will follow your lead without a single question asked. As you can see,” I gestured out the window.

“Still doesn’t answer my question on why any of this trash would be a goldmine,” I sent Ron a coy look.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, Captain.” There was a teasing lilt to my voice. “A precious stone will look like an ordinary rock to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking for,” I finished with a tilt to my lips and a twinkle in my eyes. Speirs pushed off of the doorway and stepped into the office, his hands going to rest on his hips.

“So how do _you_ know what to look for?” Ron and I, during the span of the war, did not know much about each other. There was the obvious attraction to one another, and there were hidden meetings here and there when we were in Toccoa, England or on leave, but we always kept boundaries with each other.

Until now.

Now, we would have time to ourselves, until we got word from HQ about our next destinations. He was a career serviceman, and I was three points short.

“I was a historian before I enlisted,” I explained. “I mostly worked through literature in the museum I was employed at. I received a letter a while back from the director, who is very good friends with my parents. Nevertheless, when he heard that I was in Europe he immediately started sending me letters. Unsurprisingly, there is a very long list of authors whose work is banned from the every corner that Germany occupied. He sent me a list of titles, editions, etcetera of certain books -all from various genres- and that if I found any of them -that I needed to hold onto them.”

“For the museum?” I shook my head.

“For myself,” I corrected. “He let me know that for whatever myriad of reasons the Nazis had, the list of books he sent me were worth a fortune, and they’d be worth even _more_ once they were brought _back_ from Nazi Germany. You following now?” Speirs nodded.

“Why wouldn’t he just keep the books for himself?”

“He figures that since I’m the one risking my neck out here that I should be able to have a little nest egg if or when I return stateside.”

“And if you don’t?” I shrugged.

“Then my family will be taken care of at the very least. I’ve been posting books back home since we started infiltrating closer to Germany, Mr. Candelabra. You’re not the only one with sticky fingers,” I joked, making Ron crack the faintest of smiles. I could tell that he was biting his tongue to keep a straight face, but I could see the mirth in his bright eyes. “I have quite the stockpile waiting for me.” I turned back around and moved to the next shelf. What caught my eyes stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Holy shit,” I breathed out, my jaw dropping as far as it could go. My heartbeat sped up rapidly, hitting against my ribcage with purpose.

“What is it?” He asked, completely clueless -which was something Ronald Speirs did _not_ like experiencing. He stepped forward and looked at the shelf.

“If this is what I think it is, I might have a stroke,” Speirs turned his head and looked down at me with a strange expression. My hand, shaking with excitement, reached for a book that was at my eye level and plucked it off of the shelf. Speirs looked over my shoulder at the text.

“Is that French?” I nodded and flipped through the first few pages.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” I handed Ron the book, which he held tentatively as if it was a ticking time bomb. “Oh my god, this s _on of a bitch_ has all of them.” I plucked six more novels off of the shelf, each in order, and flipped through the first pages before piling them on Speirs. The laugh I let out was close to maniacal.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell this is?” I looked up from the seventh volume and smiled big and genuine at the man next to me.

“ _À la recherche du temps perdu_ ,” I replied. Speirs’s face was deadpan. “In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust. This piece of shit has _all seven volumes_ , all _original first edition prints_. All in _excellent condition_. I think I’m gonna faint,” I laughed out.

Speirs was looking at me like I had just grown four more heads right in front of him, but I felt like I had just won the war singlehandedly.

“I am _so_ incredibly curious why a German SS Major would have this in his possession. Granted, I’m sure a lot of them don’t read for pleasure so they wouldn’t know who Proust was, but why would he have this in his collection?” The questions were said out loud mostly for myself, a way to get my spinning thoughts out of my brain. None of this made sense.

“Was he,” Speirs shifted the books in his hands to read the name, “ _Proust_ , was he banned?” My eyes were wide and bright when I turned to Ron in shock.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” I said, reacting as if that was well known information. “Though by the rest of the world’s standards, he was one of the greatest novelists in the modern times. However, there are varying accounts by those around him, but the speculation was that Marcel Proust was a homosexual. That alone, regardless of his writing brilliance, was enough for his name to become blacklisted within the Nazi occupation. Proust never came out and admitted it, naturally, but at one point he had a duel with a fellow writer,” I took a moment to think, “ _Jean Lorrain_! With Jean Lorrain who had come out publicly about Proust’s supposed relationship with another man. They both lived, but it is all very exciting.” Ron’s lips were parted just slightly as he blinked at me.

“So…was he?” Speirs didn’t come out fully with the question, even though he was never one to beat around the bush, but I could tell this conversation on _unorthodox_ male sexuality had turned into uncomfortable territory -as it would with most men. I shrugged.

“I think he was many things. He talks about it in great detail through his many characters in _À la recherche du temps perdu._ I’ve only ever read the translated copies in the States, so I’m sure a lot of it was altered or redacted. Although, he was caught in many scandalous events involving male brothels -I’ll save you the details, _Captain_ \- but no one can really say, can they? He lived his life the way he wanted to live his life and for that, I say good on him. But I guess that’s neither here nor there I suppose.” Ron, God bless the man, had no idea how to make heads or tails of anything I had just told him. I could see it in his eyes. He was a recon man, he wanted to know everything about everything before getting into a situation and I had just thrown him into the deep end with this.

He looked like a cornered cat.

Deciding to give the man mercy, I took the stack of books from his hands, mine brushing his for a quick moment that seemed to zap him back into reality.

“How much is something like this worth?” Ron asked, trying to ground himself I’m sure. I set the books down on the Major’s desk.

“Well,” I pointed at four volumes. “These four volumes are going to buy me a brownstone in the Back Bay on Newbury Street that I’ve eyed every day for three years when I walked to work. And these three,” I pointed to the final three volumes, “Are going to buy a nice vacation home on a remote beach in the Carolinas.”

“For _books_? People will pay that much for _books_?” I walked over to Ron and stood mere inches away from him. My hands came up to grab onto his lapels. His hands circled around my waist.

“We are in very strange times indeed, Ron.” I whispered as he lowered his forehead down to meet mine. “It’s all about being in the right place at the right time.” I spoke into his lips as they pressed against mine. Ron let a beat pass before pulling back just a bit and he spoke.

“You planning on staying in Boston once you get back?” It was amazing how small this world actually was. Both Ron and I were from Boston, though from very different neighborhoods in very different sides of the city. It only took going halfway around the world to know that the other existed. I wasn’t a firm believer in fate, but this was a big enough display of its power to sway me.

“Yeah, go back to the museum. Maybe get married, start a family. Who knows. The world is my oyster.” I shrugged, nonchalant, “It’s all smooth sailing once I’m back on American soil. The way I see it, no matter what gets thrown at me once I go back, it’ll be a piece of cake.” Ron nodded, deep in thought.

“Get married? Have kids?” Ron repeated, an eyebrow arched very high as if to challenge what I had suggested. I nodded with a grin, not backing down. Ron’s arms moved to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me snug against his firm chest.

“Doesn’t seem like a bad idea at this point in my life.” I spoke into his chest. “I’ve had my wild years. I think I’m ready to settle down.” I felt the littlest vibration in his chest of what would be a chuckle. It made the grin on my lips grow even bigger.

“You got any poor sucker in mind?” I pulled my face away from Ron’s chest and looked at him as he looked down at me. I gave him a quick smooch.

“Yeah, I got a poor bastard in my sights and I’m not letting him loose anytime soon.”


End file.
